Smoke ascend from chimneys,
amid tall trees evergreen.
Leaves leap through the wind
in chase of memories.
White swans in the south stream
touching peak to peak.
Squirrels in the grey nest
playing hide and seek.
Grandma's baking apples
cinnamon and spice,
I keep thinking of you
sweet love vanilla eyes.
An old oak wooden cabin
with food, laughter to share,
a kite above my window
shows me you're still there
And I sing again ...
The love song of forever
as two butterflies await,
spring flowers together
And I play again ...
On the harp strings of the moon
waiting for a new dawn
and a lovely afternoon.
Nearness of November by Nette Onclaud
In froths of a sky never ever ending,
she throttles like a half—shelled woman
slow to prance in the midst of obedient breeze,
her movement wrapped like a hundred cider vines…
How orange are her nights.
Tipping the light with curves arched and flowing with rain,
she mounts her tinseled limbs on autumnal crest.
The trees, seeds, and candles in her eyes
lightly open the fingertips of near November.
Quick to beat on belly drums, her tresses
of fire melt the liquid stars in one tender rush…
How native and young is she.
After holding the skirt that lifts into a dance in the midst
of patient time, the moon hangs like a violin ready
to strut for a waltz that drifts on appliqués of her arms.
And if every detail of lace in her malleable clay
can be sewn in the light touching her shade,
this she shall bring too. In near November froth.
When Two Are One by Charles Henderson
I think, and you speak my thoughts completely.
Wherein lies truth, if when I die, I lose myself.
My thought and deed lying fallow in decaying tissue.
So I write to save me.
You are in every thought, every deed,
every movement that I make.
You complete me.
When I awake, the first breath that
I take is to exhale a sigh of relief.
You are still by my side.
My soul belongs to God, but my essence
lies in the intangible.
In a form acutely digestible----
to be cussed and discussed.
In discourse, to be thoroughly scrutinized,
labeled and passed on.
The song is rewrit time and time again
and the note of passion sounds
as now within me seething----flowing over.
It dances on the grass
as nymphs in springtime forests.
I close one eye and look at truth
as the side of a coin standing mute.
I look at life spinning, good—bad—good.
But who decides bad- - - good?
The spinning coin has a solid center
which we perceive as real.
The spinning word has the same illusion- - -
we have but to interpret as we see.
Life goes on, after the thrill is gone, but
the thrill goes on as long as we are not alone.
Ahhh to be so talented and to be so loved! Do you like them? Be inspired write for my contest and refer to one of these gems!